


The Candle That I Burn

by GraphiteFox



Series: Red Rover [4]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteFox/pseuds/GraphiteFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handler's job is to protect his agents, even from himself.  Merlin will do whatever it takes to keep his loved ones safe, even if it means removing himself from Kingsman entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Candle That I Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I AM A BAD PERSON WHO BREAKS NICE THINGS. I AM SO SORRY.

                There are benefits to having Harry as Arthur. The biggest one is knowing that Harry isn’t out in the field, at least not as a rule. Occasionally he wants to stretch his legs and Merlin accepts that, because he gets to choose the missions. So even if Harry comes in to complain about being sent on data retrieval or basic reconnaissance, there’s not much he can do since he set the terms of the arrangement in the first place. Merlin’s call.

                The problem is that being Arthur means Harry spends the majority of his time at HQ, along with Merlin. After twenty-five years of varied schedules and date nights held over transmission feeds, it’s strange to have the luxury of popping into Harry’s office at almost any time and actually finding him there. Before this, the most time either of them spent together was when Harry was on medical leave from some traumatic injury or another. Even then Merlin was still expected to work, which meant a lot of transmissions where a bored, bedridden Harry complained until Merlin forcibly shut down the feed.

                It’s a blessing, this new situation, or at least it should be.

                Merlin hates it.

                How is he supposed to use the “overwhelmed with work” excuse when Harry knows exactly how much work he has?

                Work that he should be getting through easily, only he can’t concentrate anymore. Not since the nightmares started.

                They were simple at first, nebulous and disjointed scenes that began shortly after Harry returned. Merlin would wake feeling a sense of unease and lie listening to Harry breathe, just to reassure himself. As time passed, they began to take the form of previous missions—none of his, but ones he watched through transmission feeds. An agent being pursued, or taking several blows in a fight.

                Now they’re violent, physical. He’s waking with a shirt soaked in sweat, unable to catch his breath. Last week he woke up convinced he could hear shouting, and realized it was probably his own voice echoing off the concrete walls of the control room. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep there.

                He doesn’t understand why it’s him. _He’s_ not the one who was shot or stabbed. Merlin is a handler, no longer a field agent, safe behind his screens and tech. Only now, when he shuts his eyes, he _is_ the field agent and he’s not safe.

                He’s started taking quick naps around HQ, just enough to keep him functioning. Each time he finds a new place to sequester himself, which isn’t difficult. He knows every bit of the mansion well, and he knows the habits and schedules of everyone who works there. The only schedule that gives him trouble is Harry’s, because lately the man has been working as late as Merlin.  

                Harry is concerned, but he’s also distracted. With a table of agents to manage and hours of reports to sift through daily, their domestic life has been moved far down on the list of priorities. Merlin is almost relieved, because _Galahad_ wouldn’t have been swayed for a moment by Merlin’s dissembling. Even still, Harry is difficult to dissuade.

                “Are you sure you’re feeling well?” he asks. “You look tired.”

                “No more than you,” Merlin points out. “I’m more concerned about you. Are you having headaches again?”

                Harry reaches up to rub at the sunburst scar on his temple. “Only small ones. Morgan says not to worry, they’re likely brought on by paperwork.” He sighs. “Did you know that Eggsy writes exactly how he speaks?”

                “He’s probably doing it on purpose.”

                “Yes,” Harry mutters. “His way of protesting against protocol, I imagine.”

                “You never enjoyed writing reports either,” Merlin reminds him. “Yours were perpetually late and sloppy.”

                Harry feigns offense. “On the contrary, my reports were exceptionally well-written and concise.”

                “That’s because _I_ wrote them.”

                “What you’re suggesting is dishonest, and would be heavily frowned upon in this organization.”

                “Then you’d better not let Arthur find out,” Merlin responds.

                Harry laughs at this, the sound relaxing Merlin like not much else can. He toys with the idea of telling Harry about the nightmares, then decides not to. Harry is already tired and worried. Merlin can handle this on his own.

                “I’m headed home,” Harry tells him. “I’ve run out of spare clothes and to be honest, I’m tired of seeing this place. Will you be joining me?”

                “Not tonight. I’ll kip here if you don’t mind.”

                “If I do mind, will that change your decision?”

                “Not at all.”

                “Rigid as always,” Harry sighs. “You know this is the fifth night in a row?”

                “I’ll make it up to you.”

                “I’m counting on it.” Harry pulls his chin up for a deep, slow kiss. It’s almost enough to make him want to follow Harry home, nightmares be damned. He nips at Harry’s bottom lip for good measure, and Harry makes a small hum of appreciation. “If I wasn’t so goddamn exhausted I’d be tempted to put your desk to good use.”

                “It would have to be my desk,” Merlin teases, “because yours is covered in paperwork.”

                Harry groans, resting his forehead against Merlin’s for a moment. Then he’s straightening, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Promise me you’ll get some sleep.”

                “Of course.”

                “Oh, and assign me a mission soon,” Harry calls back from the subway car. “I’m going to start shooting the walls at this rate. Something interesting this time, Merlin. I’m not a trainee, after all.”  

                “I’ll see what I can do.”

                Once Harry’s gone, Merlin sighs, long and low. He feels washed out and anxious at the same time. Harry’s mission requests are nothing new. Still, he wonders how long he can delay this one. If he’s lucky, until Harry is too arthritic to pull a trigger.

                A movement in his periphery makes him swing around in his chair, eyes searching the room. There’s no one there. He stands up, does a quick circuit of the room, but it’s only him and the screens. Merlin removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. He has to try to sleep. Seeing things is never a good sign and he’s just conscious enough to know that pushing himself to work tonight is not the best idea.

                Several of the agents keep rooms at the mansion, Merlin included. For a long period of time he practically lived at HQ. There are probably more clothes in his room here than at his flat.

                Tonight though, the thought of trying to sleep alone in a large bed doesn’t appeal to him. Instead, he heads to where he’s least likely to be found.

                When they aren’t training new recruits, the barracks go unused. They haven’t used the barracks since recruiting Lancelot. There’s something strangely comforting about the stark room, the spartan beds. Ten identical cots greet him when he flicks on the light.

                He flops down on the closest one, not bothering to turn out the light. He dreams of a dark room. A blade slicing too close, the sound of fabric tearing. He presses his hand to his stomach and it comes back slick and red. A voice is speaking to him, level but urgent, telling him to get out of there.

                When he wakes, he finds it hard to breathe for a moment. He remembers the mission, the first time Harry was injured after Merlin became his handler. He’d been stabbed, and despite his attempts at humor, the wound had been deep. Merlin had guided him out of the building and to the rendezvous point. The wound had required twenty-three stitches. He hasn’t forgotten what it felt like to look through Harry’s eyes and see blood.

                Merlin glances down at his hands, surprised to see them trembling. It’s probably just as much from exhaustion as anxiety.   At this rate he’s going to collapse and that benefits no one.

                He heads to the infirmary, to the medicine stores. Morgan keeps them locked but he has a key. Over the years, Merlin has obtained access to every aspect of the Kingsman organization short of Harry’s encrypted transmission feed.

                The stores are well stocked and organized. It only takes him a few moments to find what he’s looking for: the high-grade sleeping pills. They’re used mostly for agents who think they’re ready to be discharged when they actually need more time to heal. Harry’s been on the receiving end of these more than a few times, though whether or not he’s aware of it is another matter.

                Merlin takes one of the bottles and locks the cabinet. Glancing over to the beds, for a moment he sees Harry lying comatose, all manner of tubes attached to him. Merlin blinks and the bed is empty.

                He hesitates, considering returning the bottle. Stealing medication is a new low. If he waits, he can speak to Morgan in the morning, get her to actually prescribe the pills. But he’s so _tired_ and some dreamless sleep will solve so many of his problems. If he doesn’t sleep soon, he might end up stabbing himself with a tranquilizer dart. That’s a lot harder to explain than a bottle of sleeping pills. Besides, this is only a temporary solution, until he can get everything back to normal. If he tells Morgan, she’ll tell Harry, and involving Harry is the absolute last thing he wants.

                Before he can think about it too hard, Merlin dry-swallows two pills and tucks the bottle into his pocket. The building is silent as he heads back to the barracks.

 

+

                The pills work at first. He stops sleeping in the barracks, starts going home. He even starts spending nights with Harry again, excusing himself for a glass of water in the kitchen before they head to bed.

                Work gets done. Things go back to normal. There’s discussion around the table about replacing the agents that were lost during V-day, three in all. There hasn’t been time for recruiting, but the world is beginning to right itself, as it always does, and soon Merlin will once again be barking orders at a bunch of fresh faces.

                He steals a second bottle of pills when the first runs out. It’s not an ideal situation, but as he hadn’t mentioned the first, asking for a second puts him in a position where he’ll have to explain.

                He’s just leaving the infirmary when he runs into Harry.

                “There you are,” Harry says, the tension in his brow relaxing. “Are you all right?”

                “Needed a plaster,” Merlin responds, holding up his wrapped index finger. “Bad paper cut, blood all over the keyboard.” The paper cut excuse is not a lie, but the plaster came from Roxy hours ago. He’d waved her off at the time, but ended up indulging her simply because he can’t really tell her no. At the moment he’s glad of it.

                “It is too much if I attempt to kiss it better?”

                “Yes,” Merlin says, but he lets Harry take his hand anyway. Once Harry’s convinced that Merlin’s injury has been addressed, he moves onto his partner’s neck, hands sliding across Merlin’s chest and down to his hips.

                Merlin pulls away before Harry can get too touchy and find the bottle in his pocket. “Let’s go home before we end up rutting in the hallway like teenagers.”

                “Killjoy,” Harry responds with a grin.

 

                Later that night, intertwined in bed, Harry reminds him, “You still haven’t assigned me a mission. Drown me in all the paperwork you want, I’m not going to forget.”

                “The kids are handling them so well, there’s not much need for you, old man. I think your field days are soon over.”

                Harry nips at his shoulder. “Rude.”

                “Says the man attempting to bite me.”

                “That’s an exaggeration. Also, if we’re going to discuss which of us has bitten the other…”

                Merlin groans. “That was an accident. It was also partially your fault.”

                “Who knew orgasm denial would make you so cranky?”

                “Go to sleep,” Merlin tells him, before Harry can remind him of all the other injuries they’ve inflicted on each other in moments of passion. Harry laughs softly, then protests as Merlin untangles himself.

                “Where are you going?”

                “To get some water.”

                “You let all the heat out of the covers.”

                “You’ll be asleep in seconds anyway,” Merlin says. And he’s right. For Merlin, sleep takes far longer to embrace, but in the end the pills send him on his way.

               

                _He’s in a small, concrete room, tied to a chair. There’s a light in his face and it’s so bright that he winces away from it. The motion attracts the only other person in the room: a dark silhouette, faceless but imposing nonetheless._

_Merlin can only sit there as the man approaches. There’s a length of pipe in the shadowy hands and he immediately knows he’s going to be tortured. His body seizes with anticipation for the first blow. It doesn’t take long._

_The man goes for his ribs, each swing of the pipe knocking the breath from his lungs. No one is asking him questions. There’s only the man and the pipe and the incessant blows._

_When the man stops, Merlin takes a shallow, shuddery breath. The thought occurs to him that he’s alone on this mission, which doesn’t seem right. He should be with Harry. His eyes dart around, half-expecting to see his partner tied up as well, but there’s no one else._

_Where’s Harry?_

_There’s not a single bleeding chance that Harry would abandon him on a mission, so either Harry is injured or dead._

_The shadowy man flicks open a small pocket knife and uses it to cut one of Merlin’s hands free. Merlin wants to fight, wants to lash out, but the man is so strong and his chest hurts so much. He can do nothing as his hand is slammed down on the table before him, fingers splayed out. It’s his right hand, which sends a thrill of anxiety through his body. He needs that one._

_“Normally, I’d take it slow,” the man says, his voice deep and warm. “Let you mull over your loyalties while I work. But there’s no information I want from you. I simply want to hurt you.”_

_Merlin’s frantic now because he knows that voice, he loves that voice, and how can the shadowy man sound like Harry? Harry loves him, would never hurt him, but that voice is not something Merlin could ever mistake. He tries to shout but there’s no sound coming from his mouth. His cracked ribs make every breath feel like agony._

_The faceless man lifts up the pipe and slams it down on Merlin’s hand. Now he can hear himself, his screaming echoing off the walls around him. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t…_

 

               Merlin wakes with his heart racing. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the soft glow through the curtains, the gently back-lit digital clock resting on the bookshelf across the room. His bedroom. A nightmare.

               His skin is damp and sticky. In the gloom he can see Harry’s form beside him. Merlin pushes himself out of bed, pausing to stare down at his right hand. It’s the same as it’s always been, save for the plaster wrapped around his index finger. _Paper cut. Roxy. Right._

                Harry mumbles his name, one hand patting the space where Merlin had been.

                “Loo,” he responds. “Go back to sleep.”

                The tiles in the bathroom are freezing. Unlike Harry, Merlin never bothers to wear the pretentious Kingsman slippers. He locks the door and leans against it for a moment, willing his pulse to slow.

                That was a mission he had barely been a part of. Gawain had been the one captured and tortured. Gaheris had been his handler and had personally gone to rescue him, despite Arthur’s orders telling him to wait.

                Merlin had just finished his pilot’s training at the time. When Gaheris and Harry showed up at the hangar with identical determined expressions, Merlin resigned himself to being kicked out of Kingsman and flew the rescue plane.

                It was his first scolding from Arthur.

                There had been whispers that Arthur was going to burn Gawain, abandon him to his fate. It had always made Merlin a little sick to think about. He liked Gawain. He’d been the first to find out about Merlin and Harry, and had never said a word. He was like an affectionate uncle and Merlin had been quietly devastated when Gawain died three years later of lung cancer.

                He remembers seeing Gawain when he’d been brought into the infirmary, the bones of his right hand smashed beyond any repairable means. It was a different kind of violence than Merlin was used to. Gunshots and knife wounds were efficient, a means to an end. This kind of personalized brutality made his chest hurt, and if he was more protective of Harry after that point, no one could fault him for it.

                _But why that memory?_ He wonders. _And why Harry_?   

                He rubs his face and neck with a damp washcloth, cringing at the sudden pain in his chest. His ribs feel sore.

_Stop. You have to get ahold of this right now before it goes any further._

                When his breathing has evened out, he returns to bed. Harry waits until he’s settled, then presses a sleepy kiss against his shoulder.

                “Are you okay?”

                “Strange dream.”

                “Do you want to talk about it?”

                “It’s mostly faded away at this point.” It hasn’t. It’s still perfectly clear in his mind.

                Harry makes a small humming sound and is back asleep in less than a minute. It’s a talent of Harry’s that Merlin has always envied, the ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere.

                He’s still groggy from the sleeping pills but, try as he might, he can’t fall back to sleep. Instead he listens to Harry breathe until the sun comes up, then closes his eyes and lets Harry gently shake him awake.

+

 

               The pills have stopped working. Since the dream involving Harry breaking his fingers with a pipe, Merlin has had nightmares consistently, regardless of whether he takes the pills or not. Each time he wakes up exhausted from the medication, but unable to sleep.

               He’s returned to sleeping at HQ and avoiding Harry, partly now because the nightmares have made him uneasy. His attackers have Harry’s face now, along with his voice. They toy with him, hurt him in every way possible. Now when he sees Harry, a quick shock of fear jolts through him. It’s not logical. His mind is fucking with him and he knows it.

               If he had any hair he’d be pulling it out right now.

               Harry is talking to him, asking about something that was supposed to be done by now.

               “The files?” Merlin stares at Harry, eyes unfocused. His brain is empty.

                Harry frowns. The lines on his forehead are becoming deeper. “Go upstairs and sleep. I don’t want to see you in here for at least four hours, preferably more.”

                “I’m fine, Harry.”

                “Shut up.”

                Merlin blinks at him, startled.

                “You look like death. Everyone’s noticed. The world will survive in our hands while you get some rest.”

                He goes upstairs, but he doesn’t sleep. Instead he paces, he thinks. _Calm down calm down calm down._

                He needs to tell Harry. That’s a conversation he’s really not looking forward to. He should have brought it up months ago, before the sleeping pills and the hiding. It’s going to hurt him. Merlin’s never been good at dealing with Harry when’s he hurt.

                A burst of energy compels Merlin to kick the bureau. The sudden action helps him focus, even if it does makes his toes ache. He takes a quick shower, rubbing color back into his cheeks. With clean clothes on, he looks a little more human.

                He waits for as long as he can stand it before returning to the control room. Harry is speaking to someone over a transmission feed, but he clicks off when Merlin enters.

                “Three hours and forty-seven minutes,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I said four.”

                “I’ll use my thirteen remaining minutes to make some tea then.”

               Harry is still frowning. “I’d like you to go home.”

                “Galahad and Lancelot have a mission in two hours. I’ll go home after that.”

                “I’m overseeing the mission.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. I’m already familiar with the building’s layout.”

                “You’re exhausted,” Harry presses.

                “I had a nap. I’ll take tomorrow off.” He forces himself to look Harry in the eyes. It helps. In real life, Harry’s eyes are warm and soft. That’s something no nightmare can replicate. “I’m _fine_ ,” he insists.

                Harry wars with himself for a moment, then finally nods. “All right. I have to head to the shop for part of that time, but I’ll be monitoring the feed.”

                Merlin sighs when he’s gone. Another lie, but it’s a common one. They’ve all parroted it back to each other at some point. Harry’s said it to him while under heavy sedation and nursing a dislocated shoulder. “I’m fine” simply means “trust me.”

                Harry trusts Merlin more than he probably should. Still, Merlin’s resolved to tell Harry about all of it—the nightmares, the hallucinations, everything—as soon as the mission is over. He’ll deal with the fallout like a responsible adult and if it means Harry’s cross with him for awhile, well, it won’t be the first time.

                Then he pushes all thoughts about Harry and his problems out of his mind. Galahad and Lancelot are infiltrating a secure tech facility that’s been analyzing Valentine’s leftover SIM cards. It should be a straightforward mission, so long as Merlin can keep the guards distracted. Merlin smiles to himself. Distraction is what he does best.

                He sends Roxy to the sixth floor to destroy the SIM cards while Eggsy keeps the guards occupied several levels down. Simple things like shutting off lights in various portions of the building help direct unwanted manpower where they want them to go.

                “Almost done, Merlin.”

                “Excellent, Lancelot. Galahad, what are you doing in that data room?”

                “I think they’re workin’ on somethin’ else here. Might be worth checkin’ out.”

                Merlin flicks his eyes to map the location of the nearest guards. “Fine, but make it quick.”

                “Fuck,” says Eggsy. “I don’t know what any of this is. Want me to patch you in?”

                It’s a risk, and beyond the mission parameters, but could be useful.

                “Only if you can get it done in thirty seconds. The guards are going to loop back soon and Lancelot needs an escape route.”

                “On it,” Eggsy responds cheerfully.

                He’s distracted by a sharp pain in his hand. Glancing down, Merlin realizes that his fingers are jutting out at odd angles. There’s dark blood pooling where the skin has split. He shoves back from his desk in terror.

                _I don’t want information. I just want to hurt you._

                Someone’s calling his name. It sounds distorted, as though it’s being spoken underwater.

                _Merlin. Merlin!_ _Fucking hell, mate, where are you!?_

                The gunshots come through loud and clear and suddenly Merlin remembers where he is. There’s nothing wrong with his hand. The voice he’s been hearing is Eggsy’s, full of panic now as he fights back against the guards that Merlin failed to notice.

                The hallway is full of them and Merlin could fucking punch himself. How long have they been filing in while he was having his hallucination?

                “Help me out here, Merlin!”

                “Hold them off, Galahad. Lancelot! I need you to get to the third floor _now_ , and be prepared to engage.”

                “I’m on my way,” Roxy responds, and he catches sight of her dashing for the stairwell. She’s still three stories above and Eggsy is trying to take on five guards at once. His feed is a blur of black-clad bodies, cut by the flash of gunfire. The only consolation is that the guards are taking out most of the systems in the room trying to hit Eggsy.

                Merlin catches sight of the lighter in Eggsy’s hand. “Galahad, _no!_ Not in that confined space!”

                It’s going to be Harry all over again, only Eggsy is three stories up and below him is only concrete.

                “I don’t have a fucking choice, Merlin!”

                “Lancel—“ Before he can finish, a blur slams straight into Eggsy’s face, cutting off the feed. The shooting has destroyed the cameras within the data room. All Merlin has now is the hallway, which is still rife with guards.

                The explosion takes out everything. He loses the hallway, as well as Roxy’s feed.

                _Christ, no_.

                He tries to access the building’s cameras, both transmission feeds, but his screens remain black.

                _I’ve killed them._

                He’s still in shock when Roxy’s feed spikes, a mess of black and white images. The video is ruined, but he prays the audio still works.

                “Lancelot!” he shouts, desperate now. “Can you hear me?” There’s a crackle, then Roxy’s voice echoes around him.

                “I’m here. I have Galahad. We are off location and heading for the rendezvous point.”

                He exhales.

                It’s Harry’s voice that responds. “Good work. I’ll see you both back at headquarters.”

               Merlin pushes his chair back from the desk and waits. It doesn’t take Harry long to get there. His face is unreadable, but there’s tension in his mouth and eyes.

                “Go home. We’ll talk once I’ve seen to Galahad and Lancelot.”

                Harry leaves before Merlin can respond, presumably headed for the infirmary to wait for them. Roxy’s transmission said nothing about Eggsy’s condition. Merlin’s heart twists itself into painful knots. He wants to be there, too. He wants to apologize to Eggsy, to Roxy, to Harry.

                Now is not the time.

                Harry is probably monitoring the subway access, so Merlin sends the car on its way, empty, and heads down to the barracks. A good handler would have admitted his weakness, would have let Harry take over. A good handler would not have tried to prove to himself that he was fine at the expense of his agents’ lives.

               Harry had told him that the church wasn’t his fault, and Merlin had accepted that on a minor level. _This_ , though. This is very much his fault and there is no excuse to stem the guilt.

               He is so very tired.

              Merlin folds his glasses and sets them on the cot beside his. He pulls the blanket over himself and waits for his demons to come swallow him whole.

               

                _He’s in the church. All around him are bodies, blood—so much blood. It’s on his hands and his face, he can feel it sticking to his skin. Light streams in through the broken windows._

_There’s no sound._

_His feet are heavy as he skirts limbs and debris, his eyes focused on the door. If he can just get out, if he can only open that door then he’ll be free._

_Fingers brush the metal handles, then he’s pulling the door wide open and staggering out into the light._

_There’s a man waiting for him. He’s dressed impeccably, his hair parted and combed. Merlin can no longer move. He stands as though pinioned._

_The man raises his head and Merlin sighs in relief. Harry. Harry has come to rescue him._

_There’s a gun in Harry’s hand, and as Merlin watches, he raises it, pointing it straight._

_Oh, please no, he thinks, but there is no sound. There are no birds, no cars on the street. It’s only him, and Harry, and the gun. The sky above them is soft blue and cloudless._

_Harry smiles. He pulls the trigger._

 

                Merlin jolts awake, sweat cooling on his forehead. There are tears in his eyes this time. He sighs and sits up, rubbing his hands back and forth across his face in frustration.

                There’s a faint rasping sound, like a shoe brushing against concrete.

                He freezes. Harry is sitting on the cot across from him, shoulders rigid and face tight. Merlin’s eyes automatically dart down to Harry’s hands. They’re clenched around his knees, but otherwise empty.

                Harry’s voice is deceptively calm. “I went to your place, but you weren’t there. Not particularly surprising, with the way you’ve been acting lately.”

                _There’s a man waiting for him._

                “Eggsy is fine, by the way. A bit worse for wear, but he’s alive, so we can be grateful for that.”

                Merlin winces. He can still hear the fear in Eggsy’s voice. He’ll never forget the terror he felt when the feed went down. “I never intended to endanger anyone.”

                “He nearly died. We could have lost Roxy tonight, as well.”

                Merlin doesn’t have a response for that, because Harry’s right. If it hadn’t been for Lancelot, Eggsy would have been lost to them.

                “What happened?” asks Harry, his voice still light. It reminds Merlin of a thin layer of ice on a frozen lake. Deceptive and dangerous.

                “I was hallucinating. It didn’t last long, but long enough for me to miss the guards.”

                A furrow appears between Harry’s eyebrows. “What did you see?”

                “Does it matter?”

                Harry stares at him. “Of course it matters. How long have you been having them?”

                “Not long.”

                Now the ice cracks, revealing the freezing water beneath. Harry glares at him, mouth working in frustration. “ _How long_?”

                If Merlin closes his eyes, he can still see the image of that cloudless sky. It’s burned into his brain, wallpaper for the backs of his eyelids. “The hallucinations are fairly new. The nightmares have been going on for months.”

                The air between them is charged. Neither of them has moved from their cots, and Merlin finds that for the first time, he’s _afraid_ of Harry. It’s not the little jitters he’s gotten used to. This is something more primal. He wants to run from the room, wants to put as much distance between them as he can. Somehow he knows that neither of them are leaving this room without first hurting the other.

                _He’s dressed impeccably, his hair parted and combed_.

                “I take it the sleeping pills don’t work.”

                Merlin can’t restrain his surprise and Harry’s expression darkens.

                “One of the worst parts about being Arthur is that I get reports on everything, from everyone. Including when several bottles of sleeping pills go missing from the infirmary stores.”

                “I didn’t think you read those.”

                “Normally I don’t. Morgan came to me in person. You’re the only other Kingsman with a key to the stores.”

                It’s not surprising. Morgan is unfailingly organized. It’s one of her best qualities. They’ve always gotten along. He can only imagine how difficult it must have been for her to go to Harry with her suspicions. Yet another person he’s wronged.

                “Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Harry.

                “You have enough going on. I wanted to, but I didn’t see the point in burdening you with something so small.” Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows how stupid they sound.

                “Right,” says Harry, looking down at his hands. “Something so small that you refused to tell me about it. Me. Your partner of more than two _decades_. You dissemble, you dodge every offer of assistance. You choose to sleep on a cot in the barracks rather than risk disturbing me. Something so small it completely jeopardizes a mission and almost gets an agent killed.”

                Merlin doesn’t respond, _can’t_ respond. Any explanation he can offer sounds paltry in the face of Harry’s logic. Harry’s eyes are bright and glossy in the dim lighting.

                “You are my partner. You don’t get to decide what’s large or small, damnit, _we_ decide that! Together!”

                _Like_ we _decided you should go to Kentucky alone,_ he thinks. _Like_ we _decided it was sensible to send you back into the field._ Why is it only “we” when it involves his decisions?

                “Do you have any idea how difficult it is knowing that you’re constantly holding something back?” asks Harry.

                “You know me better than anyone,” Merlin protests.

                “I know you as much as you’ll let me. I get pieces, Merlin, puzzle pieces here and there that I have to put together and hope you’ll give me enough that I can glean some kind of picture from them.”

                It’s such a stupid, dramatic statement. It makes Merlin want to punch him.

                “You’re being ridiculous and you know it,” Merlin snaps back. His skin feels hot. “All those years ago you requested me to be your handler and then you ran off being Galahad, not caring if you were being reckless, not caring that I had to sit in that goddamn control room and watch you get shot at, or tortured, or God forbid legitimately injured. Then you’d come over to HQ, showing off your war wounds and acting like it was some big joke. You’ve never _once_ let me have a say in how you’ve handled your life. Don’t pretend to be surprised when I do the same thing.”

                Harry scoffs at him. “Is this why you send me on errand missions now? Your way of ensuring that I’m safe?”

                “I’m your handler. Protecting you is my _job_. Sometimes that means protecting you from your own damn self.”

                “I took an oath as a Kingsman to do my job, no matter the consequences. That doesn’t stop just because you’re squeamish about my safety.”

                Merlin grips the sides of the bed with both hands. “Forgive me for wanting you in my life.”

                Harry snorts humorlessly. “Do you? Because the past two months seem to have been about you finding ways to keep me out of it. Is it also your job to lie to me?”

               “For Christ’s sake, Harry, _shut up._ You want to talk about keeping secrets, how about the one where _you survived a gunshot to the head_ and didn’t tell anyone! Instead you show up a month later with a great quip and then act surprised when everyone is upset about it.”

              Merlin shoves himself up from the cot. His entire body is quivering with rage. All of his fear is gone now. There’s just the years of anxiety, of red-hot anger.

             “You were _dead_ , Harry. You were dead. And I sat in that fucking chair and I _did my job_ , just like you would expect me to. Then all hell broke loose and suddenly I was holding the lives of two fucking _children_ in my hands, not to mention the fate of the entire goddamn world. And again, I did my job. I kept doing it because it was all I had.”

_Harry is going to rescue him_.

             His voice softens because his throat is thick with tears. Harry is staring back at him like he’s been stabbed. It’s a look Merlin’s seen on his own face many times, reflected on blank screens.

            “Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you again after all that? _Alive_? You can’t. There is no way for you to understand, because you’ve never been in my position. You’ve never spent day after day watching the ones you care about get stabbed, or shot, or beaten, or fucking _murdered._ And after all that you tell me that you want to go right back out there, that you’re ready. Well I’m not, Harry. I’m not ready to watch you risk your life again. Because the next time you die, I’m not coming back from it.”

            Neither of them move for a moment.

_It’s only him, and Harry, and the gun_. _It’s different this time. The gun is in_ his _hands._

            If Harry wanted all the pieces, he has them now. Merlin exhales. His cheeks are damp.

             “I’m not excusing my behavior,” he says. “I lied to you and everyone else. I’ll accept the consequences of that. But please don’t pretend that I don’t care about you, because nothing could be less true.”

             “I don’t know what to do,” Harry admits. His own voice is shaky, his hands still clenched around his knees. “I don’t know what to do as Harry or as Arthur.”

              _Blood on his hands._

              Merlin swipes his hand across his eyes. “Then maybe I should leave.”

              Harry frowns at him, then his mouth opens slightly. “You’re not serious.”

              _A soft blue sky._

              He doesn’t know if he is or not. All he knows is that his very _skin_ hurts and he can barely breathe and that if he doesn’t get outside immediately, he’s going to start screaming.

              Harry’s on his feet now, calling his name, but Merlin pulls the door open and stalks out.

              “ _Merlin_.”

               He’s never walked away from Harry. He’s never walked away from anything. Solving problems is what he does, but he can’t solve this one, at least not now, so he’s doing the one thing that makes sense: separating himself from it.

               The moment he steps out of the mansion, his lungs fill with air. It’s cold and biting and everything he needs right now.

               He walks out to the tree line and continues on, no longer tired, no longer anything. His mind is blessedly empty. All around him is silent, save for the sound of his footsteps.

               When he looks up, the sky above him is dark and full of stars.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how I’m coming back from this one yet. It hurts. Still I couldn't get the idea out of my head that out of everyone at Kingsman, Merlin has the most devastating job. It's one thing to be shot at, of course, but to have to watch violence consistently occurring to someone(s) you love is an incomparable hurt. And while Merlin is really good about being understanding of other people's pain, I feel like he wouldn't acknowledge his own particularly well. Also, with the confrontation between him and Harry...a lot of what's said and why it's said will be explained in the next fic.  
> That said, there will be more young Merlin and young Harry in the near future, with Gawain and Gaheris to boot because I really love them now and want to explore their story as well. Also some of Merlin’s friendship with Morgan, the Kingsman physician (and perhaps Harry jealousy about this, hm?).  
> Also more of our fledgling knights (Eggsy and Roxy). Now that Harry and Merlin are getting all of their drama sorted out, they can better surrogate parent their newbies. Because I want mother hen!Merlin and proud father!Harry.  
> *mumble* Basically I want to write a lot more fluffy stuff because this story made my heart hurt.  
> Still on the Fleetwood Mac kick. This one was composed to “Illume.”  
> “I'm alone now  
> With my thoughts  
> Of how we could make it  
> Of how we could get out  
> What we've been through  
> All of the trauma  
> …  
> I will not take you for granted  
> I wouldn't trade you for jade  
> Or for diamonds  
> Not for one minute  
> Not for anything  
> I need you to be there  
> Just remember when I am haunted  
> That I was just so scared  
> …  
> What I saw on this journey  
> I saw history go down  
> I cannot pretend  
> That the heartache falls away  
> It's just like a river  
> Ooh, it's never ending  
> I cannot pretend  
> That the heartache falls away”


End file.
